


Devastated

by diandrahollman



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual John Watson, Bottom Sherlock, Demisexual Sherlock, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Handcuffs, John is a Sex God, Light Bondage, M/M, Mentions of past Sherlock Holmes/Sebastian Wilkes, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Slash, Top John, talk of masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7531138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman/pseuds/diandrahollman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people tend to assume my flatmate is rubbish in bed. I am happy to report that they are wrong. However, there is one thing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular plot bunny was planted in my head by this article: http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/tv/news/benedict-cumberbatch-imagines-explosive-sherlock-sex-scene-i-would-be-devastating-9828359.html so all credit and/or blame goes to Benedict Cumberbatch. 
> 
> This takes place sometime in the middle of season 2, probably, but as it is essentially plotless there is no specific timeline.
> 
> Dedication: To my friend, without whose constant prodding and support I may never have finished this story.

Most people tended to assume that Sherlock was rubbish in bed. The reasons for such assumptions were never entirely clear, but I suspected it was a combination of his poor social skills and his apparent inability to be affected in any way by sexual stimuli. Or emotions. Or anything else that might humanize him for that matter. Of course, the only reason I cared about these whispered rumors was because they always involved me. Despite my repeated statements to the contrary, the same people who seemed to have little better to do than spend their free time gossiping about Sherlock's sex life were convinced that I was on the receiving end of his inept affections. Or at least, it *was* the only reason I cared until such time as Sherlock and I actually started having sex. 

It had all begun rather suddenly. We had returned to the flat after the end of a particularly trying case and Sherlock had unceremoniously pinned me to the wall and shoved a hand down my pants. I had come embarrassingly fast and only partly because I was still riding an adrenaline high from the chase. Sherlock was exceptionally good with his hands – his violinist fingers clever and impossibly nimble. Thanks to what was, I had no doubt, very extensive research; he was almost equally talented in the art of oral sex. When I was capable of thinking anything at all during our encounters, I delighted in the secret knowledge that public perception of Sherlock’s skills in the bedroom was absolutely false.

Well, mostly false.

A strangled cry tore itself free of me despite my best efforts to hold it in, my mind going utterly, gloriously blank as I spent myself in Sherlock’s mouth. I stared at the ceiling as I caught my breath, dazed, and carefully unclenched my fingers from the sofa cushions, feeling the joints creak and complain in protest. I carded trembling fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he removed all evidence of my orgasm with efficient swipes of his wicked tongue, the light, almost teasing strokes sending shivers of pleasure through my sated body. Sherlock hummed appreciatively and gave one last, lingering lick across the tip of my cock. Then he pushed himself up from the floor, pressed an almost chaste kiss to my cheek – just at the corner of my lips – and slipped away into the kitchen to check on one of his experiments before I could muster the energy to kiss him properly.

There was one point on which public perception of Sherlock Holmes wasn’t entirely inaccurate. In the three months since our – for want of a better word – relationship had begun, he had brought me to Earth-shattering orgasm at least three times per week, yet I had not once been able to reciprocate. I had tried, but each time Sherlock had simply brushed off my advances and quickly busied himself with some experiment or ongoing case before I could press any further. While he was a veritable virtuoso when it came to *giving* pleasure, he seemed discouragingly incapable of receiving it. If I didn’t know better, I would believe Sherlock was incapable of deriving any sort of pleasure from our encounters. He always accepted – and often encouraged – non-sexual affections. I had learned just how to run my fingers through that curly mass of hair to make him sigh and just where to rub on his neck and back to make every muscle in his body go loose and relaxed. But it seemed any time my hands wandered below the belt, Sherlock would either redirect my attention (often by distracting me with blow jobs so incredible that I sometimes forgot how to breathe) or pull away to tend to some distraction or another and the moment would be lost. 

I had spent a good share of time in those three months analyzing Sherlock’s behavior, trying desperately to come up with an explanation. I was reasonably certain that Sherlock found me attractive. I couldn’t imagine him being willing to do some of the things he did to me otherwise. I saw no indications of erectile dysfunction or any other form of impotency – Sherlock was visibly capable of arousal, he just was never inclined to do anything about it. I didn’t think Sherlock had been traumatized by a previous partner in any way as he never gave any indication of being distressed by anything we did. I knew I could probably ask, but to be honest I was too embarrassed and reasonably sure my concerns would be met with one of Sherlock’s blank, unblinking stares and a reply that would make me feel stupid for even asking. Instead, I had spent the past month and a half plotting a way to turn the tables on my beautiful, infuriating lover – to make Sherlock finally *feel*. And now, I figured as frustration began to creep around the edges of my orgasmic lethargy, was as good a time as any.

I crept quietly up the stairs to my bedroom to retrieve the supplies I had been gathering, returning within minutes. 

I hesitated in the doorway for a moment upon returning, watching Sherlock study the specimen on the microscope’s viewing tray. If not for the mussed hair and slightly swollen lips, there was nothing that would indicate he had just been giving his flat mate an enthusiastic blow job.

 

I jolted back to the present when he spoke up. "I can *hear* you thinking."

There was a slight hoarseness to his voice that sent a shiver down my spine. It was primitive, sure, but part of me couldn't help but feel a dark sort of satisfaction in knowing exactly how I had caused Sherlock to sound like that. That same part of me wondered what it would be like to have Sherlock completely at my mercy, begging me in that ruined voice to allow him the release he so desperately craved. 

Beautiful, I suspected. Like a fallen angel. Utterly debauched.

Sherlock glanced at me as he turned to the open laptop beside him; long fingers fluttering over the keyboard, racing to keep up with the ever rapid flow of his thoughts. I tried not to allow myself to think about what those fingers had been doing a mere ten minutes earlier. I crossed the room without conscious effort, acting on instinct. I gripped Sherlock's chin firmly in my hand, coaxing his head back and kissing him deeply, barely suppressing a groan as I realized I could still taste myself on his tongue.

I dragged myself away after a bit, sweeping my tongue indulgently over Sherlock's full lower lip. "Will this experiment of yours require your attention for the next hour?”

Sherlock hummed. "I assume you have alternative plans that involve the handcuffs in your pocket."

"How did you..." I snapped my mouth shut, opened it to speak again, thought better of it and closed it again. "Of course you did," I muttered. "Well then..." I fished the handcuffs from the pocket of my trousers and fastened one of the bracelets to Sherlock's nearest wrist.

“Oh,” was all Sherlock managed to say, a momentary look of surprise flashing across his face, before I pulled both of his arms behind his back and secured the other wrist. 

I leaned close so my lips just brushed the delicate shell of his ear and murmured “you have a choice. You can go back in there, sit in your chair and let me suck you off nice and slow or we can go back into the bedroom and I will take my time exploring every inch of you. Either way, I *will* make you come.” 

I felt a shiver go through his body. “John, I don’t think...”

“I didn’t ask you to *think*, Sherlock.” I tightened my grip on his arms, hearing him inhale sharply. “Choose, or I will choose for you.”

I could almost feel the rush of thoughts tumbling over each other in his head. No doubt he was debating whether he could still escape or calculating the best strategy to turn the tables on me. “John,” he finally said quietly.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

I could almost hear his heartbeat in the deafening silence of the flat. 

“Right.” I tightened my grip on his arms, forcing him up from the chair and giving him a push in the direction of his bedroom. “Bedroom it is, then.”

He hesitated and my frustration bubbled to the surface again. "Now, Sherlock," I snapped.

His eyes darkened for a moment, his face reflecting a confused mixture of arousal and apprehension. Then he turned and disappeared into his room without another word. 

I took a moment to turn off the light on the microscope and take a deep breath. The look on Sherlock's face in that moment before he followed my instructions had all but confirmed something I had suspected about him ever since I first caught his expression when a military man showed deference to my superior rank. I wondered if his actions had all been deliberately calculated to goad me into taking a firm hand with him. I didn't know how far he expected me to take this knowledge, much less whether I would be capable of being whatever it was he needed. 

He was standing awkwardly beside the bed when I finally worked up the courage to follow him. I hesitated for a moment, then fished the handcuff key from my pocket, holding it up for him to see and deliberately setting it on the bedside table. Then I pointed at the bed and ordered him to "sit." unsurprised by the speed with which he complied unquestioningly. 

Unquestioning, however, was not the same as silent.

"We should discuss safe words and hard limits," Sherlock said in the same blunt, matter of fact way he said anything.

My stomach twisted a bit. Frustrated as I was, I had no desire to do anything remotely painful or unpleasant to him. "We won't need them."

The look of alarm crossed his face again. "Don't be absurd, John. That's hardly safe."

I stepped in front of him and reached to cradle his head between my hands, coaxing his head back so I could look him in the eye. "Why won't you let me touch you?"

He frowned. "What are you talking about? You touch me all the time."

"You know what I mean, Sherlock. You're always eager to get your hands and mouth on my cock, but the minute I try to return the favor you pop off."

He stared at me blankly. "Did I do wrong?"

My frustration melted off a bit as I realized that he genuinely didn't understand why I took issue with our arrangement. "Sherlock...love...have you ever had sex before? With anyone else?"

"Yes."

"And is this all you think sex is? Getting your partner off and then going straight back to your work?"

Sherlock gave me the dreaded blank stare that usually made me feel like an idiot. "John, my work is..."

"Important, yes, I know," I interrupted. "You didn't answer my question."

"You have needs, John. I understand that. Whether or not I ejaculate while fulfilling them should not matter."

Of course he would say that. "Have you had an orgasm before?"

"Yes."

"While you were having sex with someone else?"

He stared at me silently. 

"Okay, so...clearly that's a no. One more question: you seem to be under the assumption that I handcuffed you so that I could...hurt you. Is that what you want?"

"I do not require it, if that's what you are asking. But if you do I would be amenable. My riding crop is in the bottom drawer of my desk if you would like to..."

"No," I interrupted more forcefully than I intended. There were some things I might have been willing to do, but whipping him was not one of them. I ran my thumb over his slightly swollen lower lip. "Sherlock...I know you think your body is just transport, but you have needs as well, whether you acknowledge them or not. And part of being in a relationship is an expectation that your partner can help you fulfill those needs." I budged closer, encouraging him to spread his legs a little wider so I could position myself between them. "I love the things you do to me, but when you don't allow me to return the favor I feel like I'm not holding up my end. Like you are just blowing me out of a sense of obligation and you don't actually *want* me to touch you."

He opened his mouth - no doubt to protest such a ridiculous conclusion - but I continued before he could speak.

"I know that's not true. I know that's not how you have it worked out in that big brain of yours. I know that. But when you push me away I can't help but feel like I'm not good enough for you. I want to give you the same pleasure you give me. If that means I have to restrain you so you won't go running off first chance you get, then I'm prepared to do that. But I don't want to hurt you." I wanted to take him apart, bit by bit, until he was nothing but a quivering pile of desire. I wanted to feel him come undone - hear him whimper and beg for more as he trembled beneath me. I wanted him mindless with pleasure, not pain.

He was silent for a long time. I could feel his steady pulse flutter beneath the skin where my palms rested against his throat and I found myself unconsciously counting the beats. Normal. Calm. Finally, he nodded and tilted his head back so slightly I might not have noticed it had I not felt it. I recognized the invitation for what it was and once I was able to process that this was happening - he was really allowing me to do this - I bent and poured all of my gratitude into an impassioned kiss. He made a tiny noise almost like a whimper and I eased back. Right. His mouth was probably still a bit tender. I licked at the swollen bottom lip and turned my focus to his neck, kissing a trail down the long column of his throat. At the same time, I unbuttoned his shirt and let my hands wander. I felt his breath hitch slightly as my fingers brushed a spot beneath his arm. Curious, I repeated the gesture deliberately and he hissed and instinctively tried to squirm away from the contact, making the cuffs rattle softly.

"Sorry," I murmured, resisting the urge to smile. Badly, it would seem.

"No, you're not."

No, I actually loved the rare moments when his façade slipped and he became human. "No, I'm really not," I agreed and deliberately tickled him under both arms.

He let out an undignified squeak, thrashed about a bit and glared at me defiantly. "Are you quite finished?"

I laughed and kissed the tip of his nose. "I didn't realize you were ticklish. Sorry. I won't do it again." I laid my palms flat over the offending spots. "Better?"

He nodded warily.

"Right. Good." I gave a couple firm strokes along his flanks experimentally before nudging him back. "Lie down."

It was awkward with his hands bound behind his back, but I wasn't about to take the cuffs off and have him try to take back control. Once I had him settled comfortably in the center of the bed I set about exploring every inch of him, as promised, carefully storing each new detail I learned in my own mind palace (though Sherlock claimed it was more of a mind cottage). His left nipple was more sensitive than his right. Even though he had got better about eating since I moved in, his ribs were far too visible. Drawing patterns around his navel made him hum softly in pleasure, but venturing inside made him hiss and squirm as if I had touched a raw nerve. 

I looked up as my lips reached the barrier of his trousers and was only somewhat surprised to find that he had closed his eyes. “Are you doing all right?”

He hummed.

“Shall I continue?”

“Please.”

He said it mildly – as if he were holding a door open for me to enter before him and not granting me permission to touch his cock. Clearly I had a ways to go yet if I wanted to see him mindless with pleasure.

I removed his shoes, socks and trousers quickly and efficiently, tossing them carelessly to the floor. I would have sent his shirt after them, but in my eagerness I had not thought to remove it before placing the cuffs on him, so I would have to content myself with simply pushing it out of the way. I decided I quite liked the image anyway. His mostly naked body (I wasn’t quite ready to remove his pants yet) framed by the dark silk. There was something almost naughty about it.

I reached out and experimentally ran my fingers up the soles of his feet. He gave a whole body flinch and I had to pull my hands back quickly to avoid accidental damage as he kicked out instinctively at the offending stimulus. I felt a measure of victory, however, as the move forced him to open his eyes again in order to fix me with a glare.

“Obviously another spot. Sorry.” I gripped him tightly about the ankles and spread his long legs, bending his knees so his feet rested flat on the mattress. I ran my hands along his calves, feeling as though I were trying to calm a skittish horse. 

I situated myself and set about exploring every inch of the tender skin on the insides of his thighs, delighting in all the tiny noises he made as he finally began to relax beneath my ministrations, particularly the gasps as I let my teeth scrape the soft flesh. I traced the line where the smooth skin disappeared beneath silken pants with my tongue. I coaxed him to open further, gently tilting his pelvis and pressed warm, open mouthed and filthy kisses to the bulge hidden beneath that thin layer of fabric, feeling it stir. He gave a shudder and squirmed, alternately opening himself further to my explorations and threatening to wrap his legs around my neck.

“That’s it, love,” I murmured, nuzzling into his warmth, mouthing at his bollocks. “Just relax..”

“John,” he groaned softly.

My fingers pushed further back, brushing over his opening before spreading him just a little wider and spearing him with my tongue. Of course, I didn’t actually get that far what with the boxers in the way, but that was rather the point. I teased him with shallow thrusts that barely penetrated through the cloth barrier, feeling powerful as he gasped my name and the muscles in his thighs quivered a bit. I indulged myself a bit longer before pulling away, working my way back up to his flat abdomen, my lips catching on the waistband of his pants, intent on taunting him just a little longer before I removed them.

I never got the chance.

 

To Be Continued


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has occured to me that I left this in a fairly cruel spot. I would apologize, but I can't exactly make any guarantees I won't do it again, so...
> 
> This story takes place sometime after Hounds of Baskerville, but exact time is not important as it is basically plotless.

_My fingers pushed further back, brushing over his opening before spreading him just a little wider and spearing him with my tongue. Of course, I didn’t actually get that far what with the boxers in the way, but that was rather the point. I teased him with shallow thrusts that barely penetrated through the cloth barrier, feeling powerful as he gasped my name and the muscles in his thighs quivered a bit. I indulged myself a bit longer before pulling away, working my way back up to his flat abdomen, my lips catching on the waistband of his pants, intent on taunting him just a little longer before I removed them._

I never got the chance.

His muscles tensed suddenly and after several alarmingly dizzying moments I found myself flat on my back with Sherlock astride me.

I stuttered in shock. “How...”

He held up the unfastened handcuffs and a small lock pick for me to see before tossing them to the floor. “Honestly, John, considering how long you’ve clearly been planning this, I would have expected you to be a little less careless with the details.”

“But where...”

“Bookshelf in the corner.” He settled himself over my hips, making me bite back a groan at the deliberate pressure against my cock, even if it was through three layers of cloth. “Now...” He began unbuttoning my shirt starting from the bottom. “I assume you remembered the supplies you would need to engage in penetrative sex?”

An embarrassingly startled noise burst from my throat without my permission and I coughed in an attempt to cover it. “Yes, but...”

“That was the plan, right? Render me helpless and work me over until I begged you to fuck me?”

“No.” That I could answer without hesitation. I was prepared for any outcome to the encounter (including the possibility that *he* might want to fuck *me*), but the goal was to make him have the best goddamn orgasm he’d ever had and maybe wipe that smug smile from his face. I honestly didn’t care *how* I achieved it. 

“Hmm, no. That’s too self-serving for your liking, isn’t it? You thought maybe you could tease me into an orgasm without even taking your clothes off. Before your own needs consumed your attentions again.” He spread my unbuttoned shirt open and his fingers danced lightly across the exposed skin, trailing down to my trousers and plucking at the buttons before cupping my reawakening cock through the material and leaning close so I could feel his breath on my ear. “But what if this is what I want,” he murmured. “What if I said I *need* you to fuck me? Need to feel your big, gorgeous cock inside me?”

I bit back a whimper. The combination of his hand stroking lightly through my clothes and that goddamn sexy, velvet-rich voice was making all the blood in my body rush toward my cock so fast that I was beginning to feel light-headed. “I...you...” I cleared my throat and fought to clear the fog in my head a bit. “Have you ever done?”

“I’m not a virgin, John.” He unbuttoned my trousers and just delved beneath my pants without bothering to remove them.

“No, I know, but...ah...” I groaned as his fingers teased me mercilessly, stroking with just the right amount of pressure. He muffled any noises I made briefly with a heated kiss. “That’s not what,” I gasped into his mouth. “Fuck...what I meant...” I grabbed his wrist, wrenching his hand away. “Stop!”

He groaned and writhed a bit so his bum pressed against me. “Please, John.”

All my noble intentions practically crumbled to dust at that and I marveled at his ability to bend me to his will even in this. “Jesus...” I cupped his face between my hands and took control of the kiss, pulling him down until I could roll over, reversing our positions. There was a bit of fumbling awkwardness as he helped me strip down to my pants with little ceremony. His own now wrinkled shirt followed. 

I reached for his pants and he tried to roll onto his front before I could even get a grip on the elastic. “Hang on,” I laughed and pulled them down just enough to free his cock. I quieted when I realized it was utterly soft. I felt my own renewed ardor cool as I ran the last few minutes back, trying to determine how much had been real and how much an act. “So what was the plan,” I asked as calmly as I could manage. “Get me to shag you and then fake an orgasm and hope I didn’t notice?”

He stared at me silently and I could just about see his brain churning to come up with another lie.

“Right. Clearly this was a bad idea. Sorry.” I climbed from the bed and reached for my clothes, sorting them from the pile on the floor. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

“Wait, John...” Sherlock grabbed my arm, pulling me around to face him. I hadn’t even heard him get out of bed. “I didn’t want you to be angry with me...”

“I’m not angry with *you*, Sherlock.” I looked at him standing before me in his pants and wondered how I had ever thought this would work. “Fine. I am a *little* angry with you for that performance you just gave, but I’m not *only* angry with you. This was a stupid idea.” I pulled my shirt on and shook out my trousers.

Sherlock’s hands closed around my wrists, stilling my movements. “John...what you said earlier about me feeling obligated to have sex with you, about not being good enough for me...I don’t want you to think it’s true.”

The look on his face made any anger I may have felt toward either of us evaporate. I knew he was a fantastic actor, able to turn on tears as easily as turning on a tap, but I could tell in that moment he wasn’t acting. He never looked that uncertain – willingly or not. Brilliant as he was, there were some things he simply didn’t understand on more than a purely academic level. He understood love, sex and emotions on a biochemical level, but he didn’t experience them the way I did. I let my trousers fall back to the floor and reached to cradle his face in my palms. “Sweetheart...”

He winced – possibly at the unfamiliar term of endearment – and his fingers, which had retained their loose grip on my wrist, tensed. “Because the truth is that I am the one who is not good enough,” he continued. “I am a terrible lover and I’m not even a very good friend.”

“Sherlock...”

“I thought perhaps if I worked at improving my skills as a sexual partner you wouldn’t...”

I pressed my lips to his as much for reassurance as to stop the flow of words. I didn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence. “I’m sorry,” I murmured between kisses. “I’m so sorry.” I pulled back and brushed my thumb over his full lower lip. “You are most definitely *not* a terrible lover and despite all your...less than stellar social skills, you have always been and I hope will always be my best friend. You don’t have to distract me with amazing sex to make me want to be with you. We don’t have to have sex at *all* if it makes you uncomfortable.”

He made an indelicate noise. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m the one who initiated our first sexual encounter. I’m not ‘blowing you’ as you so crudely put it out of obligation. I find I quite enjoy it.”

I looked over his face and wished – not for the first time – that I had half his talent for reading people. “But you don’t enjoy it when I try to return the favor?”

“You already deduced that I’ve never had an orgasm while I was having sex with another individual but you believe you could be the exception. I thought it kinder to not ruin your fantasy by proving you wrong.”

I held back a sigh. “Sit down.”

He frowned. “Why?”

I pointed to the bed and repeated “sit. Down. Now.” I didn’t raise my voice, but I had learned long ago that I didn’t need to in order to assert authority.

He looked like he was considering arguing with me for a moment before deciding it wasn’t worth it. He sat slowly on the edge of the bed and looked up at me curiously.

“We seem to have cocked this up. Let’s start over from the top.” I let my hands rest lightly on his shoulders. “What can I do to make you feel good?”

He rolled his eyes. “You weren’t listening...”

I pressed two fingers to his lips, cutting him off. “I didn’t ask how I could blow the top of your head off. I asked how I could make you feel good. The two are not mutually exclusive. Sometimes the journey is more enjoyable if you’re not worried about reaching a destination.”

He frowned. “So you want to continue what you were doing before.”

“Well, yes. I was quite enjoying it. Obviously you understand.”

“But your goal then was to make me have an orgasm.”

“Yes.”

“I just told you that’s not likely to happen.”

“I know. More importantly, my goal was to return the favor, as it were. I want to learn how I can give you as much pleasure as you do me.” He opened his mouth, but as I could see he was about to argue, I cut him off. “Look, you liked what I was doing before, yeah? How about we take it from there?”

“You want to handcuff me again?”

“Will that help?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s put a pin in that for now then. Lie back.”

I waited for him to situate himself comfortably on the bed, using the time to let my shirt rejoin the rest of our collected clothing on the floor and – more importantly – attempt to mentally prepare myself. Sherlock was capable of arousal. I had witnessed as much myself. He was also capable of orgasm, though I only had his word on that point. I wasn’t arrogant enough to be sure I could be the exception, as he put it, but that left me to walk a very fine line between pleasure and frustration. I decided in that moment that it was best to avoid pushing too hard for that reason. Better to leave him wondering why I had insisted on a less than stellar performance than upset because I tried to force him past his limits (even if those limits were only in his mind).

I laid beside him and drew him toward me until our bodies fit comfortably together. Our legs entwined, our arms looped around each other in a loose embrace. I nuzzled his ear and kissed along the curve of his jaw toward his lips, marking the end of my path with an almost chaste kiss. I settled back to look at him while my fingers drew mindless patterns on his lower back. “I love you,” I whispered because – God help me – I did and in that moment I couldn’t help but acknowledge it.

I braced myself, expecting him to chastise me for giving myself over to “ridiculous sentiment”. Instead, he simply smirked and carefully traced the edges of my scar with one finger.

“I’m sorry I handcuffed you.” It seemed ridiculous now in hindsight and, frankly, indicated more insecurity on my part than his.

“Don’t be. I quite enjoyed it.”

“You did?”

He huffed. “Obviously. Though you were far too tentative. Next time you might try to be a bit more assertive.”

I swallowed a groan and ran my hand down over the swell of his buttock. “Next time?”

“Hmm...” he bent to mouth at my scar, not so much kissing as feeling the texture of it with his lips. 

“More assertive,” I murmured. I rolled us over suddenly, pinning him to the mattress, my hands clamped tightly around his wrists at either side of his head. “Like this?”

He made a low noise that could have been a laugh or a purr and wrapped his legs around my hips, drawing me closer. I gave in to the instinct to thrust and he groaned and arched into me. I was still clear headed enough to realize in that moment that he wasn’t acting this time. His pupils were dilating, his breaths shortening. But just to be sure...

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” I growled. “You want me to hold you down and shag you until you can’t *think* any more. Until you’re begging me to stop because it’s all just too much.”

He made a small hiccupping noise and shook his head, his mind denying my words even as I felt his body open to me. Even as his long legs wrapped around me and drew me into the cradle of his hips and I felt the faint stirring of his cock. I had been right. Handcuffs or no, he wanted me to take control. And the thought of giving up that control both excited and terrified him. I realized that maybe I could do this – be what he needed me to be – after all.

I let go of one slender wrist so I could pry one of his legs loose and loop my arm beneath his knee, pulling up and out. His hand flailed for a moment before clutching my shoulder. He let out a small cry as the movement opened him further, until the only thing preventing me from just sliding into his welcoming body was the double barrier of our pants. Well, and a lack of proper preparation.

“Is this what you want?”

His head jerked in something that was likely supposed to be a nod and the hand clutching my shoulder released and reached for my arse. I let go of his leg and grabbed his wrist before he could reach his destination, pinning it beside his head again. 

“I need to hear it, Sherlock. Is this...” I punctuated my words with a forceful thrust. “What you want?”

“Yes,” he blurted, arching into me and tugging against my grip. “Yes, I...yes!”

I lingered a bit longer – both to torment him and to indulge myself. Then I wrenched myself away, feeling a surge of victory as he belatedly reached for me, a displeased sound caught in the back of his throat. “Pants,” I ordered, reaching for my trousers to retrieve the supplies I had brought. 

I saw him move suddenly from the corner of my eye and halted my search through my pockets in alarm when I realized he wasn’t removing his pants but crawling across the bed, seemingly bound for the dresser in the corner. 

“What are you doing?”

He hesitated. “I have lubricant...”

“Ah. Well...carry on then.” I had lubricant too, obviously, but only a couple sachets. I palmed them and the condoms and rounded the bed just as he lifted out a bottle and started to close the drawer. I reached for his arm, halting the movement as something in the drawer caught my eye. “Hang on now...what’s this?”

It seemed he kept more than lubricant in the drawer. A full half of the space was taken up with tissues, lotion and an impressive variety of toys. I picked up the one that had caught my eye – a slim, curved bit of silicone in an alarmingly bright shade of purple. I pressed the button on the base of it and it began to vibrate.

“Don’t,” Sherlock grumbled, snatching the vibrator from me and turning it off. He replaced it and shut the drawer before I could protest.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said with a laugh that trailed off as a thought occurred to me. “Wait...we searched this room for drugs.”

“No. Mrs. Hudson searched this room.”

“Mrs. Huds...oh, god.” I thought of poor Mrs. Hudson – who took issue with orgasmic moans issuing from Sherlock’s mobile – stumbling on Sherlock’s collection of sex toys and giggled helplessly.

“Yes, that’s why she hasn’t been in my room since. Glad you find it so amusing.”

My tittering turned into a full laugh. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you’re quite finished.”

“Sorry.” I coughed, fighting to reign in my mirth. “I just...sorry.” I pointed to the drawer. “Was that a fleshlight?” He gave me a withering look. “Okay, sorry. Sorry. Come here.” I cradled his face between my palms and coaxed him into a kiss, muffling any remaining chuckles against his lips. 

That was when I noticed that I was no longer holding the supplies I’d fetched from my trousers.

“Bugger it,” I muttered. “The condoms...” I turned back to fish them from the drawer and this time my eye caught something familiar I hadn’t noticed before. “Is that...” I plucked the box from where it had been tucked in the corner and opened it, knowing full well what I would find inside.

How had I failed to notice that he had stolen my military ID tags?

Beside me I could feel him start to withdraw, likely anticipating my anger. I should have been angry. But as I ran my finger over the bumps and ridges of my own name, serial number and blood type I found I couldn’t summon even a glimmer of annoyance. My mind filled with images of him clutching them in one hand while the other manipulated one of those toys between his legs. I imagined him choking back noises of pleasure so nobody else could hear, writhing and trembling and gasping my name as he succumbed to it. The rush of arousal that I felt at that moment left me light headed.

“John, I...”

I shoved the condoms and packets of lubricant in his hands. “On the bed,” I ordered, my voice startlingly rough in the quiet of the bedroom. “Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be actual sex in this story eventually. :)


	3. Cover art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three possible cover pictures for this story...

Option 1: blue

Option 2: with bedsheets

Option 3: closer, with a hand fisting bedsheets


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The vampire reference has nothing to do with Twilight or any other supernatural series. I have similar freckle patterns on my arms and I always jokingly call them my vampire bites.

I always prided myself on being a considerate lover. I had never had trouble holding back my own pleasure until my partner had found their own. But in this one instance, I found myself grateful that I had already had an orgasm before we began because it lessened the urgency, allowing me to take my time with Sherlock.

Admittedly, I had less experience with male partners than female and most were back in uni, but Sherlock was unlike any of them. He was far more challenging. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything less. Luckily, I felt I knew him well enough to be able to read him and adjust accordingly.

He sighed as I kissed and licked the soft insides of his thighs and rocked into the fingers I had buried inside him. I rotated them gently, carefully stretching him open, occasionally nudging the tight bundle of nerves that made his cock twitch and swell. He grunted as I did it again and ran far too steady fingers through my hair as I nipped at the juncture of hip and thigh and pressed wet, open-mouth kisses to his abdomen, paying special attention to the faint appendix scar. 

“John,” he murmured.

I licked a stripe up the underside of his cock and closed my mouth around the tip, suckling gently.

His fingers twitched in my hair and he moaned, rocking ever so slightly into my hand. I hummed encouragingly and felt him shiver, a tiny burst of salty slick hitting my tongue.

Challenging, yes. But oh, how rewarding. I thought I could spend hours like this, tasting and touching, feeling the muscles beneath his smooth skin tremble beneath my lips. Watching it redden slightly from the stubble emerging on my chin. I would take him apart, piece by piece, until he was mindless with the pure, helpless want of it.

But that wasn't what he had asked for. Next time, I told myself.

I crawled up his long body awkwardly as I refused to remove my left hand from its spot between his legs to do so, kissing and licking hungrily the whole way. His fingers continued to alternately massage my scalp and twist in my hair. I was sure I had a frightful case of bed-head. I tugged the more sensitive nipple gently with my teeth, feeling his breath catch.

“Sure?” I pressed my revived erection into his hip. 

I felt him nod.

I twisted my fingers, pressing against his prostate until he gasped. “Words, love.”

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice tight and breathless.

“Condom.”

He let go of my hair to fumble for the packet from where it had nearly wedged beneath a pillow. I distracted myself while he tore it open by pressing soft kisses to each of the most prominent freckles scattered across his chest and up his neck, somehow almost always in groups of two.

Like vampire bites.

The thought rose unbidden into my mind. Absurd, but once it had taken root it was unavoidable. I couldn’t resist fitting my mouth over the ones that formed the top of a loose “T” along the left curve of his throat and letting my teeth sink in.

I was rewarded with a startled cry. He arched up into me, then gradually relaxed, making choked little mewling noises as I kissed and licked the reddened skin in apology. 

“Condom,” I repeated, continuing to kiss a trail up one side of his neck and down the other. I felt his fingers tremble slightly as they rolled the rubber on me. 

He made a nearly inaudible sound of protest as I sat back, pulling my hand free so I could reach for one of the pillows. He understood my intent and helped get it positioned under his hips. I sat back for a moment, just taking in the vision of him naked and spread out before me, his hips tilted so I could watch his stretched opening clench in anticipation. 

I groaned and reached for the bottle of lubricant where it had nearly fallen off the bed, slicking myself generously, trying to keep my movements slow, calm. “How long...”

“Sebastian,” he answered before I could finish.

“Se...Sebastian Wilkes?” I shook my head. “I knew it. Knew there was something going on with you two. What was that? Nine...ten years ago?”

“Mmm. And his penis is significantly smaller than yours.”

I laughed. “You don’t need to flatter me, love.”

“I’m not. Most people measure the length of an erect member when the more important measurement – at least for the person taking that member into their body – is circumference. You may be barely average in length, but you make up for it with a quite generous girth.”

I stared at him. Dear God, he was serious. I cleared my throat. “Right. Well. Shall we?”

“Please.”

I knelt between his thighs and pressed the tip of my cock to his lubricated rim. “Stay nice and relaxed,” I murmured. I had to bite my tongue as I pushed inside and felt the tight, hot squeeze around the head. Christ that was already bloody fantastic.

Sherlock gasped quietly, his fingers twisting in the sheets at his sides.

I stroked his flanks. “Good. Bear down a bit for me, love?” I felt his body give and eased myself inside slowly. “That’s it. Stay nice and relaxed. Brilliant.” I forced myself to hold still once I had bottomed out, focusing on Sherlock’s face. “All right?” I gasped.

His right hand reached for my face, his fingers fluttering over my skin as delicately as the wings of a bird. “It...it doesn’t hurt.”

I huffed out a surprised laugh. “Good. That’s definitely good.” I kissed his fingers and leaned over him, palms braced on the mattress beside his head. The haze of arousal lifted a bit and my breath caught as the curious look on his face fully registered in my lust-addled brain. He was serious. He was genuinely surprised to find that this act was not painful.

I ran back over everything he had said about his previous experiences in my mind, the pieces falling into place to create an awful picture. It would explain why he hadn’t wanted to do this before. A brief, cold rage flitted through me as I imagined Sebastian – or some other selfish prat – taking his own pleasure without the slightest consideration for Sherlock, assuring him that it was supposed to hurt when Sherlock complained. No wonder he’d never had an orgasm when he was with somebody else before. Without any better experiences to compare to, he must have believed himself incapable. I wished I had punched that cocky bastard in the face when I’d had the opportunity.

He groaned, obviously realizing exactly where my thoughts had strayed. “Don’t...” He arched his back, trying to impale himself further and goad me into movement.

I trapped his hips with my weight, hissing as he responded by scratching at my lower back and arse. “No, hold on...stop it!” I fumbled for his hands and pinned them beside his head. He stilled at that, looking up at me with eyes so dilated that the odd mix of colors had nearly given way entirely to black.

Right. I could worry about getting revenge on his inconsiderate past lovers later. Now that I knew the problem lay with them and not him, I was confident I knew how to fix it.

I smiled down at him. “Yeah. You like that, don’t you?” I pulled back ever so slightly, rolling my hips in a gentle thrust, a thrill going through me as the movement drew a soft whimper. “Is this what you think about when you’re using those toys you have stashed away?” I gave him another slow, rolling thrust. “Hmm? Is this how you get off?”

His legs tensed around my hips, the muscles around my cock alternately gripping tightly and relaxing, growing accustomed to the stretch, his body opening to let me deeper. “John,” he gasped.

“Mmm...” I kissed and licked his throat again, tracing lines between those maddening freckles, blazing a trail up to his ear. I was unable to resist tugging the lobe between my teeth a little. “Bet you’ve even done it while I was in the flat, yeah?”

I felt him nod. Heard the small gasping noises he fought to damper. I groaned as the picture I’d envisioned earlier grew more detailed. 

“You’re so careful to keep quiet, but I bet you’ve imagined what would happen if you cried out...shouted my name...imagined me bursting in here and replacing your hands with mine...that ridiculous piece of rubber with my cock.” I punctuated my words with firm thrusts that made his back arch and his nails dig into his palms. “Like this.”

He made a strangled sound between uneven breaths that could have been an attempt at my name. 

“Show me,” I whispered, letting go of his right wrist. If he had been operating at full mental capacity in that moment, he might have noticed that part of the reason I did this – a very small but not insignificant part – was because my bad shoulder was beginning to ache and I suspected I would not be able to maintain my grip on him much longer. But he seemed sufficiently distracted by his growing arousal. And anyway, if he did notice, he didn't say anything.

I recaptured his lips in a messy, gasping kiss, groaning into his mouth as I felt his knuckles brush my abdomen and heard the slick sound of his fist sliding over his cock, spreading the wetness pooling at the head. He made a desperate, needy sound in the back of his throat and arched into me, his legs tensing around me, making movement difficult.

God, I hoped he was close because I didn't know how much longer I could hold on.

"Yeah. You're so bloody gorgeous," I babbled, panting into his ear. "So open for me...letting me inside...feels so incredible." I adjusted the angle of my thrusts until he made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. "You're so close, aren't you? So hard...so wet...I can feel it..."

His hand moved faster and he struggled to say my name between hiccupping breaths.

"Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel it. I want to be inside you when..."

He interrupted me with a strangled cry, his body tensing and shuddering beneath me, the muscles around my cock gripping tight, squeezing.

I shoved myself upright, bracing my good arm beside his head and catching his leg with the other as it started to slide. He flailed, still riding the wave of his orgasm and not focused enough to do anything with his hands beyond twisting his fingers in the mussed sheets and holding on while I continued to fuck him through it, until I couldn't hold on any longer and I came with a shout.

Everything went blurry for a few seconds, but I managed not to fall completely on top of him while I was insensible. I pressed kisses along his collarbone as I calmed. "That was brilliant," I murmured into his skin. "You are brilliant."

He made a vague noise that might have been an agreement. "You realize that won't happen every time."

"No, I know." I kissed his lips gently. "Thank you."

"And next time I should be on top as this position obviously pains your shoulder."

He had noticed then. Of course he had. But the realization that he had withheld that deduction was pushed aside as I focused on two words at the beginning of that sentence. "Next time?"

"Next time we engage in penetrative sex, yes. You could still be the one doing the penetrating, of course. Unless you would prefer to be on the receiving end."

I didn't know what was more surreal: the fact that we were having this conversation at all or the fact that we were having it while I was still inside him. "Can we maybe finish this round before we worry about the next one?"

"Oh...sorry. I thought you were finished."

I groaned. "I am, it's just...we should wash up before this gets uncomfortable." I reached to secure the condom while I pulled out, mumbling an apology as he hissed in discomfort. 

I rolled onto my back and sighed as my strained muscles relaxed into the mattress.

There was a small flurry of movement beside me before he took the used condom from my hand, slipping the pillowcase he had removed from the pillow under his hips into it instead. "Here. This is already soiled."

I couldn't muster the energy to protest. I just watched him climb from the bed and disappear naked into the hallway, smiling to myself as I noted the slight stagger to his normally graceful gait.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basically describing this gorgeous (NSFW) drawing by marielikestodraw in this chapter: http://sherlobsessed.tumblr.com/image/144492908685
> 
> I know it seems like I dropped the military kink. It will be addressed in the next (last) chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I'll try to make it worth it. Thank you so much to everybody who has left comments and kudos on this! You guys are wonderful and totally make doing this worth the trouble. Thank you for validating my insanity. :)

I cleaned up the worst of the mess and lay back to rest a bit, listening for the sound of running water as he washed himself. It seemed to be a long time before he turned on the tap and when he finally did it was the one in the kitchen.

"Well, if you're not using it," I muttered to myself as I heaved from the bed and retrieved my shirt and pants. 

I located a clean flannel in the lav and washed up a little more thoroughly in the sink. I put my clothes back on, but didn't bother with the shirt buttons.

I found him back at his lab on the kitchen table, wrapped in his dressing gown, typing furiously on the laptop.

"Sherlock..." I delicately picked up the flannel he had obviously used and left to sit on the corner of the table delicately between two fingers and made sure he caught my expression of disgust before carrying it to the lav. Sometimes it was a miracle he didn't make himself sick from contamination.

When I returned, I set about preparing tea for both of us. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I decided to take a peek at what he was doing. Usually I didn't understand his experiments, but the complicated formulas and cryptic notes sometimes offered glimpses into his mind. 

"What are these," I asked, pointing to the prepared slides sitting beside the microscope. 

He barely looked up, his typing continuing without pause. "Seminal fluid."

I nearly dropped the one I had started to pick up and carefully set it back down, touching it as little as possible. I cleared my throat. "Ah...er...is it..."

"Yours and mine. Of course, one of yours is contaminated by my saliva, but it provides useful data all the same."

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "Right. And erm...what sort of data are you collecting from our semen?"

"Changes in volume and consistency and bitterness depending on the stimulus, frequency and dietary variables. And we both have a perfectly healthy sperm count in case you were curious."

The tea kettle whistled as I opened my mouth, stopping my reply. Which was just as well. Bitterness? He was doing taste comparisons?

I gathered my thoughts and considered my response while I poured the tea. I set his cup beside his elbow and finally settled on "you know there's more to it than that, right? Orgasm and semen?"

He stopped typing to reach for the cup. "Of course. That's why it's only one of the points of data." He blew delicately across the surface of the hot tea before taking a sip. 

"What are the others," I asked, regretting the curious impulse immediately. 

He waved at the laptop, which was open on a spreadsheet with multiple tabs, all cryptically labeled. "Variations in arousal according to different stimuli. Time spent on foreplay. Average time needed to achieve orgasm. Recovery time. Effects of different stimuli on different areas."

"Mmm. And what are you doing with this data, exactly?"

His expression suggested this should be obvious. "Finding the most efficient combination to produce the most positive result."

It was like one of those moments during a case where the evidence suddenly falls into place and I wonder how I didn't realize what was happening before. "How long have you been doing this?"

"About three months."

The whole time. Since that first day when he'd wanked me in the middle of the sitting room he had been quantifying our sexual encounters, treating them as if they were part of an experiment.

No, that wasn't quite right. 

'I thought perhaps if I worked at improving my skills as a sexual partner...'

Sherlock believed everything could be reduced to a simple formula. A logical problem he could analyze and solve. He was trying to work out the perfect formula for pleasing John Watson the only way he knew how.

'You have needs, John. I understand that. Whether or not I ejaculate while fulfilling them should not matter.'

The problem was never that he wasn't enjoying what we did, didn't want to have sex with me or was incapable of finding pleasure in it somehow. It might not even be that sex with previous lovers had been unenjoyable, though I thought that might still be somewhat of a contributing factor. He just never considered himself a variable in this experiment.

"Not good?"

I realized I had been staring into space for a rather long time. I cleared my throat and set my cup on a clear spot of the table. An American expression popped into my head as I considered how best to deal with this new information. 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.' 

"How, uh...how many of these variables have you tried on yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

I slipped my hand between the folds of his gown and drew small circles on the inside of his thigh with my fingertips. "I mean, is there anything in particular I can do to help you collect data?"

He squirmed as my fingers wandered higher. "I don't understand. You're already helping." He hissed as I reached his cock and stroked gently along the soft length of it. The touch was meant to be more comforting than arousing. I doubted either of us was ready for another go so soon.

"With Subject A, yes. But we need to get Subject B caught up so the data can be properly compared."

His thighs spread a little, allowing me better access as he swallowed noises of pleasure. His fingers turned white from gripping his cup too tightly. "You want to test the variables on me."

I hummed an agreement and leaned closer until my breath stirred the curls behind his ear. "I want to do all the things you've done to me these last months and more. There's so many things I want to do to you. With you. And you were wrong earlier when you said you would have to be on top next time. There's many more positions we can try. You inside me...me behind you...bending you over a table...standing..."

"Might need a stool for that one."

I stopped petting him and stared at him, reading the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and the smile he held back with twitching lips. "Rather reckless to mock a man who has you in such a vulnerable position, don't you think?" I squeezed gently and he squirmed, a noise that was part chuckle, part moan spilling from his lips.

"Well...I do tend to live dangerously." He smirked at me and I was tempted to bend down and take him in my mouth right then and there and see if I could wipe that smile off his face with another orgasm.

"Cheeky bastard. Maybe I should get a muzzle for the times your mouth isn't otherwise occupied." I stressed that last word deliberately to make my meaning absolutely clear.

His cock twitched lazily against my palm and his tea cup clattered softly against the table as he set it down on the surface. "Would you..." his voice cracked and he coughed to try to conceal it. "Would you wear the tags?"

My hand stilled. I had known this would come up the minute I had put the box back in his dresser. The momentary flash of disappointment in his eyes had been obvious. He wanted to explore his newfound military fetish. But while the thought of him clutching my ID tags while getting off on the fantasy of Captain Watson was enormously tempting, I wasn't sure I could put on those tags as part of sexual play. It felt wrong - disrespectful - to play soldier when I had actually been one. But he wasn't asking me to dress like a drill instructor and discipline him. It was just the tags. Surely I could handle that? If I desensitized myself to the feel of them around my neck again, I would barely even notice them. 

He grabbed my hand and clutched it between his own. "Just the tags," he added, obviously understanding my reservations. "I don't have to call you Captain or even sir if it makes you uncomfortable. In fact, *I* could wear the tags if you'd rather."

The thought of him wearing my tags like some sort of collar *definitely* held a certain appeal. I pictured him naked, covered in my handprints and bitemarks, the metal tags glinting on his sweaty chest as he moaned and panted and writhed on my cock. A dark thrill of possession slithered down my spine and I wondered if I could get him to wear them when we weren't having sex. In public. At crime scenes. A secret between the two of us hidden beneath his clothes. A symbolic brand marking him as *mine*.

I groaned, brought his hand to my lips and brushed a kiss against his knuckles. "Tell you what..." I straddled his lap and sat gingerly, not quite sure if the chair would hold so much weight. He gasped and I noted the way his eyes dilated again. I delved beneath his gown with both hands, sliding my palms down his flanks. His hands instinctively went to my backside, pulling me in tighter and supporting some of my weight. "I will...consider it," I murmured between nibbling kisses down his neck. "If you...will let me...tie you up..." I reached his ear and lowered my voice to a soft rumble. "And use every one of those toys in that drawer on you one...by...one until you can't even remember your own name."

I felt his fingers tense, digging into my buttocks. I kept one hand on his lower back and brought the other around the back of his chair, bracing myself. I rolled my hips, pinning him bodily to the unyielding wood seat. 

He moaned softly and I felt his body go slack against me. In a humbling rush I realized I didn't need any props or special skills to bend Sherlock to my will. He trusted me with his life and his body implicitly. Even though both of us were worn out and sore I felt certain I could do anything I wanted to him just then and he would be pliant and agreeable. If I had properly prepared I was in the perfect position to ride his cock, assuming he could get it up again, until either he came or the chair gave out. (I made a mental note to try that some other time on one of our more sturdy chairs by the fireplace). Assuming that was out of the question for the time being, I could still drop to my knees in front of him suck him off. Or I could simply slide my hand between our bodies and wrap it around his stirring cock. Or...

I thrust against him again. "I bet I could make you come again just like this."

He made a tiny helpless noise in the back of his throat. I thrust again and he arched into me, his head falling back. "John..."

God, I could get used to hearing him say my name like that. Part begging (which he would likely never admit to) and part taunting challenge. 'Yes, please, make me.' I realized I might just get off on his submission just as much as he did on my control.

"Maybe next time," I whispered in his ear. I let go of him suddenly, reaching back to gently pry his hands from my bum so I could stand. 

He whimpered in protest and reached for me. I committed this image of him - dazed and half-hard, grasping hands and kiss-swollen lips imploring me to come back and finish what I had started - to memory. The perfect picture of sensual desire. Every bit as beautiful as I had imagined.

"I'm going to grab a shower. You can join me if you like when you're finished here." 

I kissed him one last time and walked away before I could change my mind. I wasn't going to come again anytime soon, but if he really wanted it I would gladly help him test his own stamina.

I made sure to leave the door open and listen for any movement while I showered. I had just finished lathering and concluded that he wasn't going to take me up on the offer after all when I felt a slight breeze and saw his shadow through the curtain.

"John," he called tentatively, the verbal equivalent of a formal surrender.

I smiled. 'You're mine,' I thought. 'And I look forward to spending the next several months of your little experiment making you scream.'

"Come in, love."

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for a preview of my next story, which features a semi-original character played via fancast by Tom Hiddleston...
> 
>  
> 
> He is definitely the man I had sex with last night. Although he is fully dressed, I can see the edge of a bruise peeking from beneath the rolled up sleeve of his silk shirt. More importantly, his smell matches the one on the bed sheets I woke up in.
> 
> His ejaculate is still inside me.
> 
> I shake this last thought off and focus on his left hand, which is curled around a glass of water. A simple gold band surrounds his ring finger. I had unprotected sex with a married man? 
> 
> "You don't know who I am," he says gently as though he can read the direction of my thoughts.
> 
> I run through the many questions in my mind - eliminating the ones that might compromise me should this prove to really be some sort of con - and settle on the most important one. "Where is John?"
> 
> His face falls and he sighs. He sets the glass and tablets on the counter beside the sink and reaches for me, hesitating only a moment when I instinctively flinch. He carefully frames my face between his hands, tilting my head with the faintest pressure of his fingertips until I am looking directly into his blue/green eyes.
> 
> "Sherlock...sweetheart. John Watson is dead."


End file.
